Patrol Duty
by Something Less Than Epic
Summary: A certain Youth Leaguer is sent out on an extended survey of the land during the early days of his commission. Will he find anything useful? I'd be surprised.
1. Patrol Duty, Chapter 1

"Patrol of the outlying territory complete, sir! Further orders?"  
  
There was no real response to the question: rather, a small, exasperated sigh.  
  
"Further orders?"  
  
A small pile of papers fell upon the desk. They outlined reports of potential sphere locations around the world. Moments before, they were under perusal: now, however, a rather singular source of irritation had intervened.  
  
"Further orders?"  
  
"Yaibal. . . aren't you off duty?"  
  
"I'm never off duty, Meyvn Nooj! Further orders?"  
  
The older man sighed, greatly wearied. He'd been up late that night, studying the results of a Spira-wide search by the newly formed Youth League, one bent on digging up the past of Spira – one that Yevon had, for better or worse, gone to great lengths to hide from the general populace. That was, after all, the purpose behind the Youth League, and their most noble function. And so, Nooj would not allow those reports to sit idle, and had personally been sifting through all fifty-three of them. Many he had already dismissed as either mistaken or erroneous, based on his personal knowledge. Others he was uncertain about, and he shuffled these off to the side, to be inspected by other, more knowledgeable sources. Only six had managed to make it past either of these categories, bearing in his mind unequivocal proof that there was something of great historic importance contained in the report.  
  
He had been eying these reports again when Yaibal, a very new recruit – only five days in the service – came dashing into his office. This was not the first time that night, either: on no less than three occasions had Yaibal barged into the command tent within the last two hours, bringing the grand total for the day up to eleven visits. Inwardly, Nooj cursed himself for putting the majority of the League out on this massive search for artefacts, as very minor Leaguers like Yaibal were inclined to seek out the highest echelons of power in the Youth League, looking for new orders when their old ones were complete.  
  
Which meant Yaibal came straight to Nooj. Over. And over. And over. The first six times, Nooj worked hard to suppress his sighs of vexation, calmly reminding himself that Yaibal was new, and the League would mould him into proper form soon enough. Once he hit his seventh visit, however, Nooj did little to hide his contempt.  
  
Not that Yaibal noticed. He approached each visit with rising confidence, stiffly alert and ready for a new assignment. It did not matter that Nooj continually appointed him with relatively small tasks, from standing guard to cooking dinner for the stationed troops. His tenth visit had, in fact, been a cleansing mission to the latrines. Yet Yaibal had done it all without complaint, and indeed, his eyes still sparkled with burning passion for his job.  
  
Nooj usually liked passion in his troops. Now, though, it annoyed him terribly, and he grunted his discontent.  
  
"Further orders?"  
  
The words nearly threw Nooj into a conniption fit, and the compulsion to bodily toss Yaibal from his office was extremely tempting. But no: this situation could be handled with more finesse, and he knew it. Nooj was far from being a stupid man, and he figured that, with a little manoeuvring, he could get Yaibal out of his hair until the information gathering operation was concluded.  
  
So his mind began to work as he sat there, calmly watching Yaibal, whom he knew would not leave until Nooj had given him a new set of orders. Yaibal would not even question Nooj's silence, opting instead to repeat his obnoxious request/demand for further orders every few minutes. Nooj could plan the entire night away, if he so wished.  
  
As it was, it took only three repetitions for an idea to percolate in his brain.  
  
"Yaibal, what I say to you next is of the utmost gravity. It is not to leave this room. Even under pain of interrogation, you must reveal nothing. Understood? If not, please leave now, and I will find somebody else to do the job."  
  
Even military precision – adopted through five days of observation and reading too many novels though it may have been – could not mask Yaibal's sudden excitement. He even broke his rigid salute and waved his hands wildly. "N-n-no sir! I can do it! Give me a chance, sir-"  
  
Nooj pressed a finger to his lips, exhaling a brief "shhh" that silenced Yaibal and put him back into salute. "Alright. Keep it quiet, as well, as I want this all to be low profile. Intelligence matters. You understand."  
  
Yaibal did. He was trembling with anticipation, a highly visible act that Nooj cocked an eyebrow at.  
  
He looks like he needs to pee. Jeez. Clearing his throat, Nooj began. "I've received reports from my, ahem, forward spies," – no such thing actually existed – "that New Yevon has been mobilizing their forces around our territory. Now, we have no enmity with them at current, but that could quickly change. Our paths are bound to clash in the future, as I'm sure you know."  
  
Yaibal nodded quickly. He looked a little pale at the fictitious news.  
  
"I need somebody to keep an eye on our holdings. And I mean all of our holdings. And beyond somewhat, as I'd like to watch New Yevon, to make sure they keep their grubby paws in Bevelle."  
  
Yaibal looked ready to pass out. He knew his part was coming. Nooj twitched involuntarily while watching him.  
  
"I. . . want you to be this. . . Yaibal?"  
  
It was too late. The Private had fainted dead away, a look of beaming triumph on his eyes. He crumpled onto the floor with a loud slam.  
  
Nooj glanced over the curving side of his desk at Yaibal, blinking. "Driven apoplectic with the desire for duty. Hum." Now afforded a few moments of relative peace, Nooj left Yaibal on the floor, a gently breathing heap, and managed to read his reports for a good twenty minutes before Yaibal came to and sprang up.  
  
"Ready and willing, sir! I won't fail! No sir! What are my mission parameters, sir? Sir! Sir!" Yaibal was ranting with joy, a fact that disconcerted Nooj more than ever.  
  
"Alright, alright, calm down now. . . here's the plan. For the next three weeks, I want you to travel from the Djose Highroad to. . . hm. . . Guadosalam. Back and forth. Patrol everywhere, and keep an eye out for New Yevon troops. Leave no crack untouched. And I mean none. In fact – " he added, removing his glasses to inject a sense of importance into his words, "– implement a Code 92." Nooj settled the tips of his fingers together in front of his nose, watching Yaibal carefully.  
  
Yaibal's face flickered with confusion. "A. . . Code 92, sir?"  
  
Instead of replying, Nooj began to glare at his soldier. His gaze was one of incredible accusation. How dare you not know what a Code 92 is?  
  
Yaibal snapped it up and improvised. "Oh yes! The old, uh, 92! Sir! Understood!"  
  
Nooj nodded. There was no such thing as a Code 92. He was merely stringing the poor sap along. "Very good. I want you to report back in three weeks. Chances are good you should be able to travel that length of road at least twice. No transportation, either: they'll be. . . expecting that." Nooj dragged his last sentence out, indicating a grand conspiracy that involved his hapless sentry. The fact of the matter was, in Nooj's mind, that would be cheating: Yaibal might get bored of flying back and forth on a hover and simply wander back to base. Dedicated, yes: prone to memory lapses out of boredom, yes. If given reason to be paranoid, Yaibal would be alert the entire three weeks, and far from bored.  
  
There was nothing for him to find along that long stretch anyway. Nobody would bother Yaibal, dressed as he was in the standards of the Youth League – which, in many cases, mirrored that of bandits – and, amazingly enough, Yaibal could aptly defend himself from Fiends. Nooj suspected the enthusiastic fop would be searching under rocks and scouting out an enemy that wasn't actually there at the top of trees for the whole time. With any luck, by the time Yaibal returned, several of Nooj's junior officers would have come back from their investigations, and could deal with the nuisance. And, even if not, it gave Nooj a three-week reprieve.  
  
Nooj mentally shook his head. Annoying after only five days of service. I know I said that everybody is allowed in, but, maybe a screening process wouldn't be so bad. . .  
  
Yaibal straightened. His chest puffed out with pride. "I won't fail you, sir. I'll find out what those Yevon dogs are up to! You won't regret giving me this assignment, sir, no sir!"  
  
Nooj rapped his fingers upon the table. "Indeed, I'm sure you won't. You set out first thing in the morning – and make it early, so nobody notices your absence. I don't even so much as want to glimpse on your face: otherwise, I'll deem your espionage skills below par. Understood?"  
  
Yaibal leapt about frantically. "No sir! I mean, yes sir! You won't see me, no sir, not once, sir!" As if to elucidate on the point, he promptly dropped below the level of the desk, all but hidden from view – except for the peak of his cap, which instantly gave the Private away.  
  
Nooj decided to ignore it. "Very. . . effective. Right, you need your sleep. Set out before daybreak. Remember, I don't want to see you for three weeks after you set foot outside of this tent."  
  
Yaibal rose with what Nooj swore to be a loud 'sproing', saluted, thanked his superior – nay, he heaped his praise on – and fled when Nooj waved his hand dismissively. The Meyvn could hear Yaibal's hoots of glee receding into the distance as he made a path to his tent.  
  
Nooj sighed. His eyes were burning. And, yet, a huge weight had been lifted – he would not see Yaibal for three weeks. And that, ladies and gentleman, was something to drink to. Rising steadily from his roughly padded command chair, he poured himself a nice, long shot of rum, and toasted his own accomplishments. "To my victory. . . over a tread-head." He drank, long and hard, savouring the burning sensation as it ran down his throat.  
  
---  
  
The next day, Nooj, watching from the high precipice at the upper level of the command tent, noticed a stealthy Yaibal sneak out of his tent, a pack slung over his shoulder. The young man – obviously over-cautious, yet not looking in any of the right directions – darted back and forth amongst the tents, trying to hide his presence yet remaining directly in Nooj's line of sight.  
  
Nooj sighed heavily, clutching the banister before him. "He's hopeless." The Meyvn retreated back to bed for a good three-hour sleep moments after watching Yaibal trip noisily over a set of pots, vectoring the Private straight into a small pen of sleeping chickens. Yaibal made good his escape, covered in feathers, his passage into the outside world heralded by the panicked shrieks of seven surprised hens. 


	2. Patrol Duty, Chapter 2

The Djose Highroad was long, curving, and flat.  
  
Or that's what he was supposed to think. Wasn't it, now? That was just the kind of deception that could persuade a man into letting down his guard. And Yaibal Monterray, proud Private of the Youth League, was no fool. Everything around him was an object of scrutiny and suspicion, and nothing would goad him into thinking that he should act otherwise.  
  
So he kept his eyes open. Constantly. Every rock and pothole was measured with intense curiosity, as though either one might somehow leap up from the road and attack Yaibal – the fact that a pothole was not likely to perform such dramatic actions never bothered to cross his directed mind. No: for everything was an enemy now, and Yaibal knew that was the safest way of getting information home safely.  
  
If rocks were granted this kind of notice, then any passer-bys met immediate hostility unless they proved to be allies of the League. Even then, Yaibal was cautious, and he bandied about in a diplomatic dance of intrigue and word games that generally left the other member of the conversation very confused.  
  
Yaibal did not, however, manage to run into a particularly suspicious individual until two-thirds of the way down the road. The suspect was a tall, emaciated Hypello, whose bulbous eyes were concentrated firmly on a small river than ran along the length of the road. He did not so much as flinch as Yaibal approached, so enamoured was he with the river.  
  
Yaibal patted the handle of his sword cautiously – it was ingeniously masked by a thin piece of cloth, an innovation Yaibal had thought up on his own to keep his purpose a secret, not that the sword gave him away anyways – and moved in towards the Hypello, feet dragging in the dirt. He did not want to be caught unawares by any sudden movements. The Hypello ignored him.  
  
Yaibal stole a quick peak to the other side of the river. Aside from a lazy peasant – or what looked like a lazy peasant, for indeed, he seemed to have an untrustworthy gleam in his eye – who had his fishing pole extended deep into the water – or was it a fishing pole, Yaibal wasn't sure; he'd keep an eye on it – Yaibal saw nothing of note.  
  
The young Leaguer cleared his throat, seeking attention. He gained none. He coughed again, rather dramatically, with no success. Even a nearly imperceptible poke rendered up few results, aside from a brief, reactionary twitch in the Hypello's elbow.  
  
After several minutes, Yaibal knew he had no choice – he was forced to put himself in danger of exposing the mission (the enemy, no doubt, had very sophisticated ways of attaching voices to names, and subsequently, names to organizations) by addressing the Hypello directly. Verbal communication.  
  
"Good day, citizen!" Yaibal nearly screamed.  
  
The Hypello's head swivelled so slowly that Yaibal could have sworn it was being twisted involuntarily by a gust of wind. Tiny, reptilian slits blinked wearily at Yaibal, registering his presence for the first time. "I losht my wallet?" The tone of its odd, gyrating voice rose at the end, though it was stating fact, not querying over any matter.  
  
Oh, you want to play the innocence game, do you? Right then: let's dance. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. What, ah, happened to it, exactly?"  
  
There was a moment of silence as the Hypello pondered the question. A high, squeaky 'hrrrrrm' flowed forth from its throat, taking Yaibal aback: was it preparing to attack? But, no: instead, it spat forth not fiery death but a dismayed answer. "I dropped it in the water." One finger, large and clumsy, rose lazily to point out the wallet's watery grave.  
  
Yaibal gasped. His eyes flew open as he realized, with impressive speed, the hole in the Hypello's argument: the average Hypello was not at all adverse to getting wet. They were a highly amphibious species, after all, and excellent swimmers. The plot revealed!  
  
"Aha!" Yaibal cried, springing back. His sudden movement caught the Hypello somewhat off-guard, and it stepped back in surprise, not noting a rock that had been situated behind its left leg and toppling backwards into a writhing heap. Yaibal grinned widely at this, for it gave him room to make good his escape. "You've revealed yourself now, Yevonite spy! You'll rue the day you messed with us!" With that Yaibal took off, pounding the dirt enthusiastically, dragging in his wake the invisible tenements of his faulty logic.  
  
It took a good five minutes for the Hypello to regain its composure, casually brushing the dirt from its moist skin. It spoke to Yaibal, despite his absence: "Yoo shink I'm gonna shwim while there's a fiiiiend in there? Inconceivabable." It extended a dusty finger towards the surface of the river, and as if on cue, a huge, amply toothed Fiend leaped forth from the water, snapping at the air vigorously.  
  
Puffing up its chest in pride at winning the argument that had already been abandoned, the Hypello settled down on the edge of the road, crossing its legs and watching the water with infinite patience. It was only a matter of time before the Fiend left. And, if not, he could just wait until it died of old age. And then the wallet would be his again. Oh yesh.  
  
---  
  
Yaibal, still frantic over his escapades with the Hypello, decided to skip past D'jose Temple for the moment. The fact that it had been recorded as being currently abandoned – aside from a few Al Bhed surveyors – did not allay his fears. The area was potentially volatile, as news of his discovery could have preceded Yaibal into the region. The Private spent his second night on the road huddled up in a tent on the path towards the Moonflow, nervously eying the forest around him lest more spies emerge to nab the diligent Leaguer. He slept fitfully, dreaming primarily of Hypello with huge, red eyes and slobbering jaws.  
  
---  
  
The Hypello, on the other hand, dreamt of a Shoopuf dancing on top of an umbrella.  
  
---  
  
Yaibal awoke the next morning to a distant pounding. Rhythmic and steady, it slowly gained in pitch and exuberance – by then, of course, the paranoid youth had packed up his tent and escaped without a trace into the forest.  
  
Watching cautiously from the cover of a bush, Yaibal scratched his chin silently. The loud stomping was getting ever closer, curving amongst the forest slowly, all the while approaching his position. Within minutes of careful listening, Yaibal could discern a pair of voices, exchanging formalities – possibly in code. He wasn't sure. One shaky fingernail – partially from the pounding, and partially from nerves – scratched daintily at his posterior. What was going to emerge?  
  
His answer came in short time: a huge, loping Shoopuf, flanked on both sides by conversing handlers. They seemed to be rather nonchalant about the whole affair as they led the Shoopuf, which was conveniently kept on track by a pair of thin, probably completely ineffectual leashes, down the dirt path. Yaibal only managed to catch a snippet of their conversation as they passed.  
  
"Right, she's a hot one, eh? What I wouldn't do to-"  
  
"Ha, sure. Like you stand a chance of ever getting in her bed."  
  
"I bet I could. Even fame can't stand up to charm, ya?"  
  
Yaibal, putting his incredible deductive skills to work once more, decided - after careful consideration, mind you – that the first voice was that of a Besaidian.  
  
"Ha, charm? You're 'bout as charming as that pile of goo I stabbed to death a few miles ago."  
  
"You callin' me a Fiend? Ohh, I'll have to whip you in cards for that one tonight, ya?"  
  
"Ya, ya. You really should work on getting' rid of that accent, you know."  
  
Yaibal's hypothesis stood verified. He scratched in pride, but kept low.  
  
"Hey, up yours, ya? I'm proud o' mine heritage."  
  
And then they were gone, voices drowned by the receding march of the Shoopuf. And Yaibal was left to thinking. What had they been doing, leading a Shoopuf around on land? For the most part, the huge animals were left to water work, with only a few exceptions. Yet Yaibal could not discern any sort of plot from the words the two men had exchanged.  
  
What did it all mean? Why was there a Shoopuf loafing about on the road? And where did that Hypello fit into it all. . .?  
  
---  
  
The Hypello belched. Nobody blamed it for doing as much.  
  
---  
  
Yaibal shook his head. No, no, this did not matter right now. He didn't have enough evidence, so lurching off the trail assigned to him was not necessary. There was still a lot of road left to travel, and speaking of which. . . but what was that feeling that had suddenly blossomed in his rump?  
  
For indeed, Yaibal had been scratching himself a great deal within the last few minutes, ever since he'd leapt bodily into the brush. Lifting himself up and gazing about, Yaibal studied his very immediate surroundings: a bush, rather voluminous, and covered in large, tri-pronged leafs. Kneeling in for a closer inspection – all the while scratching himself with a renewed vigour – Yaibal brought one leaf close to his face, taking a good, long whiff of it. Perhaps he could smell something wrong with it. . .?  
  
Odd assumptions notwithstanding, the end of the leaf tickled his nose as it flicked about in the breeze invoked by his nostrils. A short, violent sneeze escaped his throat, and he fell back, landing with a gentle plop in the bush once more. As he did, the steady itch that had developed on the majority of his nether regions spread, with incredible voracity, to his face. Very soon, it became quite unbearable.  
  
Yaibal began to panic. The urge to scratch was irresistible, so scratch he did: his face, his legs, his arms, his ears, and even – the poor man – his crotch. It became so bad that soon, he was rolling about wildly, yelping and scratching, scratching and yelping. His flailing became so frantic that he plummeted out onto the road, fingers travelling the entire length of his body and back, constantly seeking relief. They found only a temporary version of it. Soon, panicked, somewhat nonsensical yells of "Get it off! Get it off!" began to emerge from his lips. His frantic path began to etch long, swirling circles into the dirt of the road.  
  
Several minutes of this torturous motion passed before an old man intercepted the beleaguered youth as he slowly plodded his way towards the Moonflow. He bore a cane and a light, tan pack. His face, once wizened yet cheerful, quickly dissolved into one of shock as he came upon the whirling Yaibal, whose calls of "Get it off!" had been reduced to animalistic yelps. As if sensing the old man, Yaibal rose in a frenzy, feet barely even touching the ground, and started forward. His manic dance greatly worried the old man, who decided it was best to left this insane lunatic behind and make a break for it – the Moonflow would still be there if he came back tomorrow instead.  
  
But Yaibal was too quick. He'd always been a good runner, and now, when sheer desperation overrode normal, human limits, this normally cautious Private became a whirlwind of furious motion. A far more primeval form of instinct had overridden his intelligence, and that instinct demanded he make sure the old man – who, at current, represented some semblance of salvation – stay where he was. Thus, limbs flailing, mouth gyrating, Yaibal dove at the man, grabbing a hold of his pack and pleading for relief. Naught but gibberish emerged.  
  
They struggled. The old man was absolutely horrified. He did his best to run, but his waning strength coupled with a delicate frame prevented any drastic measures. As such, Yaibal, in his haste for a cure, managed to send them both flying into the bushes with a mighty, ill-timed heave of his arms. The sufaces of those same arms had erupted into long streams of crimson bumps, a condition that was quickly being mirrored on the rest of his body.  
  
It didn't take long before the old man, too, was performing a similar dance, spitting epithets he'd never thought possible and scrambling about in his backpack for the ivy cream he'd had the foresight to bring along on his trip. He only managed to relieve one of his arms, however, before Yaibal snatched up the canister from his hands and began to spray the contents across his body. As he did, the panic on his face melted away, replaced with sheer rapture. Without the slightest bit of shame he dropped a huge, runny lump of the stuff down the front of his pants, tossing the rest of the container away and running his hands up and down the lengths of his legs and the epicentre that connected them both. The cream formed a huge wet stain on the front of his trousers, a darkened blot that would soon be followed with another as Yaibal repeated the procedure on his rump. He made loud, appreciative sounds throughout it all, and would have appeared to most onlookers as though he'd just had an orgasm from every orifice in his body.  
  
The old man, screaming loudly at Yaibal, made good his retreat, covering himself as much as he could with the contents of his largely depleted canister. Yaibal, in response to the death threats, gave a huge, satisfied smile, and collapsed into a dead faint on the road. 


	3. Patrol Duty, Chapter 3

Note: Short one today. Ever since I started work, it's been hard to write: the incredible drudgery of separating one newspaper from another, over, and over, and over again, for eight hours, tends to sap one of both their imagination and their will to write. I'll create something more substantial on the weekend.  
  
There was a sharp poking, followed by a blissful ignoring.  
  
The motion persisted. A grunt followed it, along with a determined roll.  
  
"Hey mister, you alright?"  
  
Grunt.  
  
"You think he's dead?" One voice inquired.  
  
A different voice, somewhat higher pitched in tone, chided the first. "Of course not, dummy. You think he would make noise if he was dead?"  
  
"Oh yeah." The sharp prodding persisted, finally shedding annoyed light onto the process of ignoring. Something had to be done.  
  
And so it was. "Agh, stop that, will you?" Another sluggish roll later, and the object of childish curiosity had come to face his attackers. Dirt was crusted across his cheek and chin. His bleary, frazzled eyes blinked wearily, searching out some form of cognizance. What he found established that his name was Yaibal, he was a member of the Youth League, and he was on a mission. A very important mission, one handed down from the Meyvn himself.  
  
"Whoa! He's awake!" The two aggressors – no, strike that; two boys – leapt back, each wielding a tenuous branch. Yaibal ignored them both, yawning and propping himself up on wearied legs.  
  
"Ugh, where am I. . .?" His mind had yet to fully piece that information together. But it was slowly returning: yes, he'd been in the bushes, at some point, watching for. . . something. A. . . a what? What was it? A Fiend? No, no: something larger, more. . . epic. Wasn't it?  
  
"You look like a Shoopuf walked over your face, mister." One of the boys commented, rather cautiously.  
  
Yaibal blinked at him a moment, the word striking a sort of meaning in his brain. Shoopuf, Shoopuf. . . yes, that was it: two men had come by, leading a Shoopuf. And he'd hidden from them, in case they were enemies. Had they been? He couldn't remember. Possibly. No, probably, because the road was filled with. . .  
  
Hitting upon this note, Yaibal concentrated on the boys a moment, his puzzled, dirt-caked features flicking quickly to suspicion.  
  
Soldiering Rule Number 1: Suspect everybody.  
  
"And just who're you, hm?" Yaibal began to shimmy away from the boys, rising up on a bent leg. He would not be caught off guard. His hand slid down to get a hold on his carefully disguised sword, only to realize with dismay that its camouflage had long since been shed. As such, the boys recognized quickly that he was a threat. Both began to back off, ready to run should this dirt mystery man suddenly turn into a threat.  
  
Soldiering Rule Number 2: If the enemy looks ready to run, pursue. They're definitely guilty, and you're obviously stronger than them.  
  
Yaibal's face contorted into a mocking sneer. He didn't even allow the high-pitched boy stammer out a response to his question. "Ahh, you want to flee, eh? Does that mean you have something on your conscience? The very response I'd expect of a spy."  
  
Both boys measured each other momentarily. They? Spies? Ridiculous. But neither of them was in a position to laugh off the man's guesswork, as he was much larger, and bore a blade. They attempted to reason with him.  
  
"We're. . . not spies, we're just kids." The high-pitched boy pointed at his stick as though it were all the evidence he would ever need.  
  
Soldiering Rule Number 3: Assume everything is a weapon.  
  
Yaibal didn't buy it. In fact, a silent mentioning of the sticks only pressed him to withdraw his sword, in all its gleaming splendour, from its sheath.  
  
Child's Rule Number 1: Adults are insane.  
  
Both kids decided they'd had enough. The high-pitched lad immediately heaved his stick at Yaibal and made a break for it. His cohort followed suit, managing to catch Yaibal in the eye with his wooden missile. Yaibal yelped in pain, blinking back tears and screaming loudly for the "spies" to "get your treacherous asses back here".  
  
Soldiering Rule Number 4: Never let the enemy escape.  
  
Yaibal attempted valiantly to follow the rule – how would he look if he didn't obey his own rules? – but, discovering that his legs were rather shaky and tired, gave up the chase quickly. The boys skittered around a corner and vanished, shrieking for help.  
  
"Going to alert Yevon sentries, no doubt." Yaibal spit in disgust. Sheathing his sword, Yaibal looked around quickly to locate his belongings. They were half covered in whatever ivy it was that Yaibal had mistaken for mere bushes, and that was not an error he was about to make again. Not if he could help it, anyway. Using his sword, he carefully dragged his duffel bag out from the volatile leafs, pitched it cautiously over his back – lest there be ivy remnants upon it - and made tracks. 


End file.
